


Mask

by symphorophilia (klismaphilia)



Category: Original Work, Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Insecurity, Intimate Platonic Relationships, Mental Instability, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Denial, Sexual Content, Symbolism, What Ifs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:22:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/pseuds/symphorophilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a fascinating beauty in it, something she’s never noticed with anyone else and she’s convinced it’s because of how much he hides- because everywhere he goes he wears a mask, and she’d outgrown hers a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FullMetamorphosis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullMetamorphosis/gifts).



> i wrote this awhile back for TJ and i kinda wanted to gift them something too, so here you go, hon.

There’s something about the people who are uncomfortable in their body, with their appearance, something that just sets them apart with that spark she’s not sure anybody else has noticed. It gives him a certain kind of smoulder she’s not sure anyone else would have paid attention to- but it's in everything about the way the Disguiser carries himself, whether he’s standing rigidly and talking with the Sheriff’s languid drawl or whether he’s meekly avoiding eye contact and letting his voice pitch to that adorably feminine accent that rivals the dead Retributionist’s…

 

There’s a certain pleasure she takes in being the only one to see him out of costume, lying there, spread out in his _own skin,_ a pale tone that even presses to rival that of their wicked Consort Acacius, though nobody she knows has quite the same combination of pale and dark, that sort of wicked, teasing beauty that likes to bury itself so far down nobody can see it. It’s enough to garner bragging rights, in a dumb sort of way, but she’s far too cautious to even think about mentioning it- the Disguiser always seems terrified of speaking, as if he thinks it’ll ruin the moment, as if she’s going to _crumble into dust_ if they let a single murmur pass either of their lips.

 

But it’s enough, the Mafioso thinks, that she knows.

 

There’s a fascinating beauty in it, something she’s never noticed with anyone else and she’s convinced it’s because of how much he hides- because everywhere he goes he wears a mask, and she’d outgrown hers a long time ago. She can’t even remember how to piece it back together, mold the pieces over her face until it’s all smooth and round. She remembers being an automaton, back when she had to ask herself _who the fuck is Julianna?_ whenever she so much as looked in the mirror. She wonders if Amauri asks himself too… she wonders if he thinks of her as anything more than a fuck buddy, but then again, if he’s showing her his face, it has to mean _something._

 

Nobody’s ever confused her so much. It’s like looking at a blank canvas, watching it fill with color as you question what it’s going to be… the paper doesn’t know how to answer you, but the artist does. But if the artist is the paper, then what do they leave to be found in all that emptiness?

 

The Mafioso likes to think that she’s the artist- her fingers running over the bare skin of his thighs and up his chest, across a flat abdomen and undefined pectorals. He’s never had much musculature- easily passes for androgynous when he’s decided not to strip from his own skin- and he’s always been so flawed in such an odd way. She doesn’t think he notices when she teases her fingers over dark purple bruises when he’s sleeping, or the way she presses a kiss to each of the marks she’s left on his body. Even now, when he’s grasping hold of her thighs so tightly she knows they’ll scar, nails digging into her own pallid flesh, unblemished compared to his, she doesn’t think he can really see her.

 

He looks through everything and she doesn’t know how to make him notice.

 

But there are those moments of such intense clarity, when he’s pulling her closer and sinking teeth into her throat and gasping out, “ _F_ _uck, Julianna,”_ so intensely she feels like she’s going to burst with the fire of it all. It’s an unexplainable heat that builds in her chest and spirals through her limbs as she clings to him and slings curses into his ear and feels his lips atop hers to keep her silent, tongue sliding past her lips and forcing its way through her mouth, tasting her so wholly she can’t prevent her own shuddering.

 

She likes to smirk at him, to drag her nails over the thin skin of his back until she can hear his breathing become more shallow, and even then she just hisses, “Didn’t think you had it in you-” as he forces her body deeper into the mattress, slides himself into her so wholly she can’t keep from crying out with the heat of it all-

 

When it’s over, she’ll lie next to him on the flimsy mattress pressed tight against the wall of his bedroom, her hands clutching to his waist and her face buried into his shoulder for just the briefest of seconds. She’s always been smart, always taken care of herself, but she doesn’t understand it, how he can care so much about everything but himself- he’s selfless and she’s selfish and they fit together so crudely, but she loves him for reasons she can’t even explain and she doesn’t understand any of it.

 

“Why don’t you ever look at me?” She whispers to the Disguiser, pressing him back and down into the mattress until she’s kneeling over him, her hips flush against his and the blankets slinking away from her waist as she pins him there. She gets the sense he’s looking through her again- with those dark brown eyes that have never spoken to her so clearly, yet have never distanced themselves so well. “Sometimes I worry that you’re an alien,” she cracks, jokingly.

 

Amauri’s hand tangles itself in her long blonde hair, combing through locks with the most gentle touch she thinks she’s ever felt. “Would an alien know the type of hairspray you use?” He asks her softly, a faint outline of a smile passing across his lips.

 

“No, just a man who takes way too long to get himself ready in the morning,” she hisses back with a smile, and he’s pulling her down next to him and holding her close and his skin is so hot against hers, feverish, burning up. He’s shaking and she can’t help pulling him close with a, “Did my voice turn you on?”

 

“You wish,” he replies promptly, but he’s pulling her closer still and her face is buried in the crook of his shoulder, and she’s blinking, feeling the sharpness of his bones and the imperfections of his flesh, brushing her hand through his short, red-brown hair and kissing a bruise on the side of his shoulder.

 

She wonders if anyone’s gotten this close- aside from his brother, had he let anyone in this deeply? The Disguiser’s world was one of secrets and little more- she’s surprised to think that not even the rest of the mafia knows the sound of his voice.

 

“Sometimes it’s like sinking,” he says finally. “When I look, I just drown all over again. Endless black waves, a sea of nothing but longing and sorrow, sorrow that never leaves. It’s built from tears- my own, maybe somebody else. I feel myself passing beneath wave after wave and there’s something so impossibly surreal. I scream but there’s nobody there to listen. I just keep sinking…”

 

He’s huddling against her, and her own skin feels colder in the sudden silence of the room, magnified under his careful watch, under his unwavering gaze, and she’s almost relieved when he licks his lips, looks over to her again, presses a kiss into the part of her hair and says:

 

“I’ve never told anyone that before.”

 

The Mafioso’s hands wrap tighter around his back as she presses a kiss to his cheek, tilts his head down so their eyes are meeting again, licks her lips and replies.

 

“I guess I’m not just anyone.”


End file.
